Falling Like Stars
by Ashayavar
Summary: Reichenbach AU based on a prompt: John never receives the phone call about Mrs Hudson being shot. Sherlock needs to make John hate him so that he'll leave. Slash.
1. Chapter 1

Based on this prompt by anonymous: John never gets the call about Mrs. H so Sherlock tries to make John hate him to leave.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Warnings: Un-beta'd un-Britpicked. Will make some changes if you leave a review and let me know what needs fixing; be honest. Thanks! :)

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><p>Some time over the last few hours John has fallen asleep in one of the lab chairs, his face propped against his arms on the counter in front of him. His back is probably going to hurt him when he wakes, Sherlock notes automatically. Which- he glances at the clock- should be fairly soon. He gave Molly very specific instructions, and the time is fast approaching. In a few minutes John is going to get a call and rush off. Sherlock will be free to meet Moriarty alone, and whatever happens from there…well, at least John will be safe.<p>

He watches the rise and fall of his friend's back while he sleeps and feels a twinge of regret. He knows if he's correct- which he usually is- and if all goes according to his plan- which it usually does, although there's no telling when Moriarty's involved- that John will be hurt. He knows there's no way to avoid it, but finds he feels guilty nonetheless. It's not an emotion with which he's familiar, not used to the idea of being responsible to anyone other than himself. He glances at the clock again and finds that the remaining minutes have already slipped away. The second-hand reaches the twelve. It's time.

But John's phone doesn't ring. The minute slips past in silence. And then the next one. John continues sleeping, slumped against the countertop and snoring slightly. Sherlock returns his feet to the floor, standing as quietly as he can, and approaches his sleeping flatmate. He picks up his phone and examins it. Dead battery. Of course; John wouldn't have had time to charge it…why hasn't he prepared for this?

He places the phone on the table as it was and returns to his seat. He'll text Molly, have her (or the paramedic she enlisted for this purpose) call _his_ phone instead. He'll relay the message to John that Mrs. Hudson has been shot. John, of course, will leave immediately while Sherlock will insist he must remain behind. His friend will be angry at him, but he's prepared for that already. He's just pulling out his phone when it signals an incoming text message. Sherlock curses inwardly as John stirs. He looks at the text.

I'm waiting…

JM

"Sherlock?" says John sleepily, rubbing his eyes. "Who's that?"

No good. He could lie, of course. Tell John he's texting Mycroft and have Molly call him anyway, but he's out of time. John has to leave _now_, or Sherlock will never get Moriarty where he wants him again- asking to meet twice in the same location would be far too suspicious. Hopefully the fact that he's chosen the hospital rooftop isn't enough for Moriarty to suspect Sherlock knows something of his plans, that he's made some of his own to prepare. Moriarty can't know the significance of the role several people in this building are likely to play. (People even Sherlock has never met. But he trusts Molly to have enlisted only the best.) They can't meet anywhere else. It has to be here. It has to be now.

All this goes through Sherlock's head in about two seconds. In three he's formulated a new plan. It takes an additional four before he's ready to carry it out…because he knows that it's for John's protection, but also that he's done everything in his power over the last year to win John's respect and admiration. And now…now Sherlock has to strip him of both. In those four seconds he retreats inward, burying his regret and crafting a mask behind which his real self can retreat so he can play the part required of him.

He pretends to read the text for a long moment before he stands and turns his back on John, pacing and running a nervous hand through his curls. Every aspect of his body conveys stress, as though the text he's received has delivered the final blow. He's not a method actor: the self-proclaimed sociopath does not feel the emotions he portrays, but rather mimics them, detail-for-detail. And yet the genuine stress of the last twenty-four hours leaks through, making his performance just a tad easier.

"Sherlock?" says John, and he hears the concern in his voice but doesn't let it affect him.

"What?" he snaps back, not looking at him.

He hears John pick up his phone, looking for messages and grumbling when he discovers it's dead. "Who're you texting?" he asks, unfazed by his friend's rudeness. He's used to it, after all.

"Oh do mind your own business, would you?" He's no longer pacing, but standing, back still turned on John, his fingers steepled in front of him in his traditional "thinking" pose.

"Hey," says John, irritation making its way into his voice for the first time. "I know it's been a rough day, but I'm just trying to help. It's what friends do, after all."

Sherlock chuckles without warmth. "Is that what you think we are, John?" he says, voice icy. "Friends?"

"Of course I do," John replies, sounding confused, either not catching on to the coldness of Sherlock's tone or else choosing to ignore it.

Sherlock spins, looking John dead in the eye for the first time. He's glaring at him with such intensity that would make lesser men cower. John simply stares back, brow furrowing with increased concern. Sherlock decides to cut to the chase.

"You," he says severely, "are an idiot. Of course you couldn't have been anything else- any assistant I found would have to be dull-witted to believe everythingI told him. Still, I played a very convincing game for a very long time. If there's anything for which I'm grateful now that it's all come out- and _oh_, I have fantasized about this moment- it's that I get to see the look in your eyes when you realize how thoroughly you've been had."

John blinks furiously, shaking his head slightly, his face a study in confusion with just a hint of hurt and denial playing through his eyes. "Why…why are you saying all this?"

"Because it's all true," Sherlock replies, speaking quickly with clinical, unwavering certainty. "Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty." There's a moment of stunned silence.

"W-what?" says John, shocked.

"I. Invented. Moriarty," Sherlock repeats impatiently, speaking slowly and clearly as though to a child. "Really, John, is it so difficult a concept to grasp? James Moriarty doesn't exist. It's just a name I invented, under which I myself worked when I organized the crimes. It was me, John. It was always me."

John's shaking his head. "Shut up," he snaps. "Just shut up, Sherlock. The first time we met…the first time we met you knew all about my sister!" He looks at him as though this settles the matter.

The lie comes just a little too easily. "Oh do use your head for once," he says, his tone carefully exasperated- he might as well be talking to Anderson. "I researched you! I knew I had to be convincing, or you'd never work with me. I discovered everything I could beforehand to impress you. I tricked you. That's all there is to it. Nothing more."

"Stop it," says John, sharply. "Just…just stop it now. I don't know what you think you're playing at-"

Sherlock cuts him off, because this needs to end sooner rather than later. "You know, my brother might call it loyalty, what you're doing right now. But I know better. You're protecting your ego, because your tiny little brain can't accept that I used you…that I've _been_ using you this entire time. Do you think I ever really needed a flatmate? I, who could somehow afford expensive lab equipment, or indeed the rent, without ever holding a paying job? How many holes in my story must I provide?"

"I…well I just assumed…Mycroft…" John is floundering, searching for any excuse. Sherlock presses on.

"Of course you did, but you were wrong, weren't you? Because for every crime I 'solved' I let at least two more pass unnoticed. I _was_ the consulting criminal. I told you, the frailty of genius is that it needs an audience. I wanted the limelight. I obviously couldn't allow myself to get caught, so I became a consulting detective to solve my own crimes. I paid Richard Brook to be Moriarty, and real criminals to carry out 'his' plans, including the men who kidnapped you and the snipers who held us at gunpoint. I mean, even _you_ could only believe in a faceless threat for so long."

"You're…you're daft if you think I'm going to believe all that," says John, his voice shaking a little. "You're a lot of things, Sherlock. Infuriating, rude, egotistical…but you are not a criminal. We've solved too many cases together. I refuse to…I will not believe now that you made everything up. Even you aren't that clever."

But Sherlock can see that John doesn't believe that last bit. John knows Sherlock's brilliant enough to pull it off. What he doesn't believe is that Sherlock would betray him; their emotional connection is too strong. He's going to have to hurt John further.

"Tell me," Sherlock sneers, "do you think it's coincidence that every time you got close to a woman there was conveniently something more important I needed you to do for me? That I was deliberately obtuse in their presence until it eventually drove them away? I couldn't have you distracted, John. Couldn't risk you getting married and leaving me so that all my work will have been for naught. I've been manipulating you from day one."

Sherlock sees that this strikes a cord. It's clear from the expression on John's face that his heart is going to be the fastest and simplest way to play this, even though, at the back of his mind, Sherlock's aware he's going to hate himself later.

"Or," he says slowly, his voice quiet and dripping with venom, "did you believe that I did it for other reasons? Did you think that I was jealous, perhaps? That I, the great Sherlock Holmes, was interested in the affections of my worse-than-ordinary flatmate?"

John's eyes widen, because Sherlock knows that's _exactly_ what John thought. But he doesn't stop there. He can't leave a single doubt in John's mind. He smiles vindictively. "Oh, this _is_ precious. I've been aware of your attraction for some time…you weren't exactly subtle about it, and I gave you every reason to desire me. I was handsome, brilliant…I even let you believe I cared, if only a little, just to keep you interested. But I never realized it went so far." Dark amusement colors his tone. "Tell me, John, did you think you were falling in _love_ with me?"

John clutches the counter top behind him for support. He's visibly shaking. "Sherlock," he says quietly, his voice pleading, eyes begging for this to stop, a request which Sherlock cannot honor. "Why are you doing this?"

Sherlock lets the smile drop from his lips. All traces of humor gone from his features, he replies harshly, "People cleverer than you have figured out the truth, and I, at least, wanted the satisfaction of watching the penny drop." He slowly makes his way over to where John is trying hard not to collapse into a chair, watching Sherlock approach with eyes full of raw emotion. He towers over John, staring down at the man coming apart beneath him, and leans in close.

"You were meant to be my insurance. The one who would testify in my favor should anyone even so much as suggest I wasn't everything I claimed to be. Instead, out of some misplaced sense of loyalty, you ruined your own credibility as much as mine when you punched the Chief Superintendent. No one is going to believe you, because they will see everything I see in you now: a pathetic, washed-up ex-soldier who was taken in by Sherlock's lies because he was smitten. But make no mistake: you could have died- as you very nearly did on more than one occasion- and I would not have blinked. You're worse than useless."

As Sherlock watches, he sees something break behind John's eyes. He stumbles backwards, breathing hard as though he's just run a great distance. There's no longer any anger in his face. Instead there's pain and betrayal and a hint of desperation, as though he hopes he will wake up and never have to face the words which have cut far deeper than any bullet wound. Sherlock straightens, his face betraying no sympathy as he watches John retreat. He pulls out his phone and turns away, as though he's no longer interested in what John is doing.

"Go," says Sherlock, not looking at him. "I've had my fun, but now you're boring me. Run crying to Lestrade and beg his forgiveness for everything. I'm sure the others will take pity on you."

"Fuck you." John's shaking voice is barely more than a whisper, making the slam of the door sound that much louder as he crashes through it. And then he's gone.

The mask falls away. Sherlock hurls the phone in his hand across the room where it hits the wall and clatters noisily to the floor, but he barely hears it. His knuckles are white as he grips the counter, head bent, his breath coming in long, shaking gasps as he tries to get himself under control. Moriarty is waiting for him. He can't afford to be an emotional wreck. He chastises himself for his weakness- everything he said was meant to keep John alive. Because, right now, that's more important than anything.

He remains just a few seconds longer, enough to calm himself and slip back behind a carefully constructed mask- this one crafted specifically for Moriarty. He doesn't bother to retrieve his phone from the floor of the lab; it will soon be useless to him anyway, and he knows there's no longer any way for him to say goodbye to John before he leaves.

But as he grabs his coat he notices John's phone is still on the table. He picks it up and, without hesitating, slips it into his pocket. He'll allow himself this small comfort, one last piece of John to keep with him as he exits the lab and heads toward the roof to meet Moriarty.

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><p>Not sure whether I should leave this as-is or continue it. I'll wait to see whether anyone's interested in how this affects their relationship Post-Reichenbach. For now, just a one-shot. <strong>Update: <strong>Chapter 2 now posted, and at least two more to come. Thanks for the reviews, guys. :)

Side note, the title is from one of my favorite songs, The Riddle, from The Scarlet Pimpernel.


	2. Chapter 2

I couldn't help continuing this, so here's chapter 2, written from John's POV. Still a few chapters to come, I think.

Warnings: Un-beta'd, un-britpicked. I'll make changes as I get reviews, so lemme know if there's anything that blatantly needs fixing. Thanks! :)

Also, slash is going to get more pronounced later. (I typed that as "pornounced" by accident and was tempted to keep it. Take this as a warning that the rating might change too, lol.)

As usual, I own nothing.

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><p>John stumbles from the room and just runs. He's not sure where he's going, but he needs to get away. To stay would mean Sherlock would continue speaking, continue saying those…<em>things<em>. And John just can't listen anymore. He can't even think about it- his mind has become an incoherent mess of confusion and denial. And pain. Because what if it's true? _It can't be._ Why would he say those things otherwise? _No. I don't believe it._ What if everything has been a lie? _Sherlock…_

He needs space, needs air, needs to find someplace he can stop and just bloody _think!_ He's left the hospital and is roaming through the city. He doesn't realize where his feet are carrying him until he ducks into an alley, one which wraps around a corner, which will hide him from the view of passersby. He and Sherlock have spent so much time winding their way through these back alleys he knows just how to find them, now.

He collapses against the alley wall, head in his hands. He's visited by memories of him and Sherlock, of their cases together. He can't stop himself from examining them like crime scene photos, searching for clues, for any inconsistency that might prove Sherlock isn't really the criminal he claims to be. He remembers being kidnapped and suited up with explosives, being forced by Moriarty to speak, to initially fool Sherlock into thinking that he, John, was the one responsible for everything. He remembers the look of betrayal in his friend's eyes. But he knows Sherlock can be a good actor when the need arises. He realizes desperately that this information doesn't help him, because either way he's been deceived.

Remembering their first case together doesn't do him any good either; everything about Sherlock was new to him then. It all runs together in his mind, a blur of brilliance and car chases and exhilaration at finally finding something exciting to replace, even to surpass, his time serving in Afghanistan. At finding a companion who appears not only to understand that thrill, but who seems to need it as much as he does.

More cases run through his mind. He tries to think of each from the perspective of a different Sherlock, one who has orchestrated everything, to determine whether it's really possible that it all could have been planned in advance. But the harder he tries to examine them, the more the details elude him. He realizes he's never going to figure anything out this way; the world of the crime scene has always been Sherlock's element. John, on the other hand, is just a soldier. He's never possessed Sherlock's ability to intimately understand the inner workings of any given crime, and he's not going to be able to deduce, from memory, whether the detective has been playing him all this time. He needs to approach this from an angle he understands.

So he stops thinking of cases and begins remembering the thousand and one ordinary moments he and Sherlock have spent together. Ordinary, of course, being a relative term where his flatmate is concerned, but at least it's something John can grasp. Sherlock shouting insults at the people on television. Sherlock, bored out of his wits, tearing the flat apart in his search for cigarettes. The two of them having dinner together at Angelo's. Sherlock never bothering to correct the man when he assumes that John's his date. John, after a while, following his lead because sometimes, just sometimes, he catches his friend looking at him in a way that suggests perhaps things are heading in that direction after all…

_Tell me, John, did you think you were falling in _love_ with me?_

"Yes!" John says aloud to Sherlock's voice in his head. "Dammit, Sherlock, yes! I did. I do..." He screws up his eyes, all the questions in his head giving over to one word: Why? It repeats, over and over. Why? Why? _Why?_

Because, fraud or not, Sherlock is observant. John's seen him perform a hundred deductions unrelated to any of their cases. Of course he'd notice John developing feelings for him beyond just the normal friendship. But why would he turn those feelings against him? John has heard him say some pretty tactless, even nasty things related to his deductions, but this is different. Sherlock meant to wound, his language and word choice designed specifically to tear into John like a knife. He has to have known it would leave scars, less visible than the one on his shoulder, but far slower to heal. If John truly means something to him, why would he do that? He wouldn't…it just wouldn't happen. Which can only mean…

John tilts his head against the brick wall and breathes deeply, cutting that thought off right there because he's not ready to deal with it. He's not sure how long he sits, numb, focusing on the sound of his breathing because it's less painful than thinking. After a few minutes he stands- he can't sit here forever- and checks his pockets automatically for his dead phone…only it's not there. He realizes immediately where he's left it, curses, then hesitates, because what if Sherlock's still there? What if he decides John hasn't had enough already and just continues right where he left off, abusing John until there isn't any doubt, any hope left?

On the other hand, perhaps John can take this opportunity to demand an explanation. He was caught off guard the first time- if Sherlock's having him on, maybe he's just made this too easy. John is many things, but a coward isn't one of them. Slowly, one step at a time, he begins making his way back to Bart's hospital.

Nothing in the world could have prepared him for when he arrives.

The first thing he notices as he glances upward is the dark silhouette which breaks building's normally even outline. He looks more closely…and suddenly he feels as though his entire body has frozen. Because Sherlock is standing on the rooftop, hovering on the very edge, staring at the street below. And John wants to yell, to move, to wave his arms and get Sherlock to just look at him, for God's sake. But, in the end, he doesn't have time to do anything other than stare and try to process- because it just doesn't make any bloody _sense_ for Sherlock to be there, standing on a ledge, looking for all the world like he's ready to jump- before Sherlock spreads his arms wide. And then he's falling. John's shout comes out strangled, incomplete, and far too late. "Sher…"

He stands rooted to the spot for exactly as long as it takes for Sherlock to disappear behind a wall which blocks John's view of the street. And then he's moving, running, because this can't be real. His life cannot have gone to hell so thoroughly in less than one bloody hour. Sherlock cannot, _cannot_ be dead.

He doesn't see the biker. What he sees is the world tilting and the pavement suddenly rushing up to meet him with dizzying speed and force. He hears his breath echoing loudly in his ears as the rest of the world falls strangely quiet. Now if only that ringing would stop…

He lifts his head. The light hurts as he opens his eyes but he can still see the dark figure lying motionless on the pavement. He can still see the blood.

John stumbles to his feet, the throbbing in his temple becoming more pronounced as the world rights itself, but it's nothing to the panic rising in his chest. He takes several careful steps forward, Sherlock's name on his lips. There's a crowd gathering now, and as he reaches them he hears the words as though someone else is speaking them.

"I'm a doctor…let me come through. Let me come through, please…" He's pushing and fighting but, inexplicably, the crowd does not part, does not make way. Don't they understand what's at stake? "He's my friend," John tries to explain, no longer concerned about whether the term still applies. Because whatever Sherlock said before, it's insignificant in comparison to the crisis facing them now. The need to get to Sherlock, to save him, outweighs everything. "He's my friend!" he repeats desperately, voice breaking. "Please…" If only everyone else would just disappear and let him through. He reaches for Sherlock's arm where it lies motionless on the pavement, but the moment his fingers brush the pale skin, it's pulled from his grasp. Paramedics arrive. Sherlock is turned over and lifted onto a stretcher. It's all becoming a blur of noise and color and pain, but he does see the eyes…they're wide and staring, pale like his skin but somehow still dark, empty. Dead.

John collapses and everything is gone.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3! Sorry about the delay, and I'm afraid I'm having issues with Chapter 4 so that might be a minute in coming too. Right now looking like it's going to be 4 - 5 Chapter total.

Again I apologize that it's un-Britpicked. If anyone wants to offer their services to this American I'd be much obliged. :)

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

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><p>John will never remember much of that initial week- a concussion will do that to you. It's all nausea and white hospital walls and irritating questions he has to answer to make sure his brain's working properly. It's police and more irritating questions while they decide whether to charge him with anything (they don't) and phrases like "damage control". It's friends and colleagues and, naturally, even <em>more<em> irritating questions about his well-being and pitying looks when they tell him they're sorry. He knows they're not talking about his concussion.

The pity is the worst, because even after he's released from the hospital it doesn't stop. No one really knows how to approach him, so they just keep repeating what he's heard a thousand times: that Sherlock was a bastard for what he did to him.

John finds it strange that they all focus on Sherlock's betrayal rather than the other crimes he's been accused of. Never mind kidnapping children or strapping innocent people to explosives. All of that goes right under their radar when they're with him. They buy him drinks or sit with him over tea and offer their support as if John was the only victim. They let him know they're there if he needs to talk and express their outrage that someone would work so hard to gain another man's trust when it never meant a thing.

At least they call it "trust". John understands from the way they say it, the way they look at him, that they mean something else entirely. Something deeper. Has he always been so obvious?

He smiles politely and thanks them. When required, he nods or gives vague, non-committal responses. If they want to hear how he's doing (which is often) he tells them he knows he has a long road ahead of him, but he's improving and will get there one step at a time. It satisfies them because it's what they're expecting to hear. He says he appreciates their support. Really, he wishes they'd all just leave him be.

He escapes 221B as quickly as possible. Just remaining there long enough to pack his things is a challenge; in the familiar surroundings it's far too easy to expect a tall figure to come bounding through the door at any moment, shouting at him to grab his coat because Lestrade needs them at a crime scene.

John takes a flat on another side of town. It's small and yet hovers at the very edge of what he can afford on his soldier's pension. He panics briefly when the bills begin piling up and he thinks he may finally be forced to leave London altogether, yet somehow he finds he gets by. Try as he might he can't quite get the numbers to add up, and he suspects Mycroft might be giving him a hand, but doesn't examine that thought too closely. For now he's just grateful he can stay.

The media eventually grows bored of Sherlock's story. His name features less and less until John can finally get through a whole week without hearing it somewhere. He's expecting this to be a relief. It's not; it just makes him feel strangely empty. It's all in the past now: Sherlock, the cases…their friendship. He can't even say it's just a memory, because that would imply his memories can be trusted. In the meantime he's back in a dingy little flat, back to being John the ex-soldier with trust issues and a psychosomatic limp.

The one thing he doesn't have this time is a therapist. At first he tells himself it's because he can't be sure someone (namely Mycroft) isn't reading her notes (again), but that's not it. When he's honest with himself, he realizes he doesn't go back because he'll have to open up. She'll expect him to tell her what he doesn't tell his well-wishers, what he can't tell her either because he knows she will respond exactly as everyone else would. No one can know, because there is no one alive who will understand.

It's this thought, nearly a month later, which drives him to visit the cemetery in the first place. He's spent the afternoon avoiding Harry's texts and thinks it best to get out of the flat for a few hours in case she comes looking for him. He just can't deal with playing the victim right now. He's never had any desire before, nor does he have intention now, as he hails a cab, of visiting Sherlock's grave. But when he clambers into the back seat and is asked where he'd like to go, it strikes him suddenly as the right place to be. Maybe his subconscious is telling him he needs to talk to someone who won't try to fix him. Even if that someone happens to be dead.

John is surprised when the cab stops; weaving, as he was, between deep thought and total numbness, he hardly remembers the journey at all. He pays the cabbie and sets out among the headstones, finding Sherlock's in a matter of minutes. It's simple: black with "Sherlock Holmes" engraved in bold lettering with the dates of birth and death underneath. No epitaph. No sentiment.

He stares at it for several long moments, unsure how to start. He'd been expecting to feel…what? Anger? Sadness? _Something_? At the moment all he feels is tired. He considers saying all this, but he could tell his therapist as much. No, best to start with the things otherwise left unspoken.

"The last time we talked," he begins, but has to pause here for a moment to gather his thoughts. He wants to make each word count, though he couldn't explain why if asked. "You asked me if I thought we were friends. I told you I did. Granted, you were never the easiest person to get along with." He lets out a short breath of laughter at the understatement, but the moment of good humor is short-lived as the meaning of his words- the reminder of their last conversation- sinks in. He swallows hard and presses on.

"But let me tell you this: I could spend the rest of my life second-guessing myself, trying to figure out if you meant all those things you said. But I'm not going to. Because I was there when you…when it happened. I tried to save you." It isn't intended as an admission of defeat, but to John it still means acknowledging that he failed. His voice wavers and he has to stop again, blinking furiously, looking everywhere and at anything but the dark stone bearing Sherlock's name. "I told them to let me through because you were my friend. It was true then, and it's just as true now. So…there."

He looks around just to be sure he's not being observed before taking a few tentative steps forward. He reaches, hesitates, then resolutely presses his fingertips to the top of the grave, seeking something tangible, something that will bring him physically closer to the man buried, unreachable, beneath his feet.

The stone is cold and unyielding. But it's perfect, he realizes, because that's exactly how the man himself would react if he could hear John's words now. This should dishearten him. Instead, it strengthens his resolve, because it's just so typically _Sherlock:_ Cold, distant, and apparently unfeeling. Yet all the while a part of him, the human part, experiences fear and joy and grief just like anyone else. It's the part Sherlock tried so hard to keep hidden from the world, and even when John's mind told him he had every reason to doubt it was real, his heart had said otherwise. As a soldier and as a doctor, he's learned to trust his instincts. Between his heart and his head, there is no contest.

"You were my best friend," he continues, "the best man I've ever known, and no one will ever convince me you told me a lie." He sees his hand begin to blur, pale against the black stone, as the tears he's been fighting rise to the surface and come dangerously close to spilling over. "Not even you."

That's it. He feels a small weight lift from his chest now that he's spoken the words aloud. They're the ones he has never allowed to reach living ears because he knows they'll be met with more pity, more assumptions that Sherlock was simply a sociopath who also happened to be an actor skilled enough to trick his poor sod of a flatmate into believing he actually cared. Instead, John knows Sherlock had been an actor skilled enough to very nearly convince his poor sod of a flatmate that he _didn't_ care.

"Please," he whispers, aware of just how quickly he's falling to pieces. "One more miracle, Sherlock, just for me: Don't be dead." He feels the first tear make its way down his cheek and lets it fall. "Would you do that, just for me? Just stop it. Stop this."

He can't continue. There is more he wants to say…a lot more, in fact. But every word met with silence is a reminder that he and Sherlock have already spoken their last; no matter what John says beside his grave, the last thing his friend ever heard him say will forever be, "Fuck you."

He buries his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with repressed sobs as he allows himself a moment to acknowledge how desperately he wants a second chance. He wants to ask Sherlock all the questions buzzing inside his skull. To be angry and not feel guilty about it. To apologize for his final words and assure him that there has never been, nor will there ever be, anyone as important in John's life or as necessary for his happiness as he was.

There is one more confession he could make; the words are on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn't say them. Sherlock knew, in his own way, that John loved him. No point pretending he has to keep it hidden because it seems the rest of the world already knew as well. He's even more-or-less voiced it once already. He doesn't need to repeat now it to understand the enormity of what he's lost.

John stands there for several long moments, allowing that knowledge and the resulting grief to wash over him like icy water- weighing him down, freezing him to the bone until he's sure he'll never be properly warm again. Then he sniffs and draws a deep, shuddering breath, trying to bring himself back under control. He wipes his eyes furiously before standing straight at attention, eyes fixed on the gold letters of Sherlock's name. He feels a powerful urge to do something…some sort of gesture. Saluting wouldn't feel natural, so he simply nods once, acknowledging with a singular motion that he would've followed this man into the depths of hell itself. Maybe one day he'll get the chance.

Then he turns away, (he does a military-style, 90-degree turn as he would after having been formally dismissed, a sign of respect) and the moment passes. Suddenly he's back to being just John: the tired and lonely ex-army doctor with a psychosomatic limp and a Sherlock-shaped hole in his heart. And yet it's different now- the wound is still fresh and raw and painful, but there's no longer a danger of it bleeding him dry. One day it may even heal.

He feels a spark of something like purpose as he starts toward the cemetery gate. Not much, but it gives him direction. There's something he has to do.

As he walks, John focuses single-mindedly on returning to his flat and getting hold of his laptop. As such, he doesn't bother looking around a second time for anyone who might recognize or bother him.

It makes no difference, because no one watches him as he limps across the grass toward the main road. He is quite alone.


End file.
